


a riot of sunlight

by renquise



Category: Kamen Rider OOO, Kamen Rider W (Double)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:30:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1958511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renquise/pseuds/renquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short Kamen Rider bits, mostly shameless and self-indulgent!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shameless Philip-is-researching-30s-fashion bit, combined with Philip and Shotaro dancing, which was inspired by [this ridiculously lovely comic](http://tatobamode.tumblr.com/post/87568149652/i-fell-pretty-hard-for-my-partner-the-man-you). (Is Philip's dress [that one](http://i236.photobucket.com/albums/ff86/renquise/greendress_zps6770ef66.jpg) [green dress](http://i236.photobucket.com/albums/ff86/renquise/greendress2_zps89f25ea0.jpg) from Atonement? Er yes maybe.)

So, Philip occasionally wears skirts or dresses when the mood strikes him, paired with his usual vest and boots. Honestly, Shotaro doesn't notice them anymore, apart from Akiko saying, ehhh, Philip, that skirt is super-cute, I'm jealous, wait, did you steal that from my closet, you jerk? (Which usually leads to Philip blinking owlishly and saying, well, yes.)

This is not one of those dresses.

“Uh,” Shotaro says very intelligently, and stares at Philip's bare shoulders. 

“Shotaro,” Philip says, the squeak of the white board marker moving onto the wall. From here, Shotaro can make out something about silk crepe and the nineteen-thirties. It goes on into French, but Shotaro keeps trying to decipher it, because otherwise, he'd have to look at the supple weight of the dress flowing over Philip's shoulders and hanging low on his back, and that's a terrible idea. A really terrible idea.

“Aren't you cold?” Shotaro says. “It's kind of chilly down here.”

“The shoes were getting caught in the grating, but they're period-typical,” Philip says, waving vaguely towards a pair of dainty heels thrown onto the couch and not answering Shotaro's question at all. “They're a little small, but the heel is characteristic of the influence of—oh, but perhaps—”

The rest of the sentence is muffled as Philip turns towards the wall again to write. He's even put loose finger waves into his hair, Shotaro notes dimly, though with the comforting presence of clips holding them back. The hem of the dress flutters behind Philip's feet when he moves to find a blank spot on the wall, loose around his legs but fitted around his slim hips, deep green and lovely. Shotaro desperately tries to decipher what “coupe en biais” means, and gets nothing back from his brain, which has apparently abandoned the premises for warmer climes.

The stark light of the garage throws shadows across Philip's face. He's a frame straight from all the noir movies that Philip keeps teasing him about, and Shotaro can't help but follow the low, sloping line of the dress across Philip's back.

“Your. Ah. The zipper. Isn't done all the way up,” Shotaro says, pointedly looking just over Philip's shoulder. 

“Oh. Could you get it for me?” Philip responded, still writing. 

“Right. Okay. No problem,” Shotaro says. His throat clicks when he swallows. The zipper sits in the lower curve of Philip's back, fitted against his spine, and Shotaro is careful, so careful, but his fingers still brush against the bare skin of Philip's back when he tugs the zipper up and then secures the hook of the fastener. The skin of Philip's back is pale, a few freckles dotting its expanse. There's one that rides the edge of his shoulderblade, shifting with Philip's writing.

“There,” Shotaro says. “You're good.” He pulls his hands away and crosses them over his chest. He can feel the tips of his ears going red. “I'm going to get you a sweater.”

“Mm,” Philip says, but he's off again, the dress billowing behind him like a flag. 

Shotaro scrubs at his face and goes to dig through their drawers for like, ten cardigans.

Shotaro is definitely getting a lot of very important, almost-non-cat-related detective research done when Philip reaches for his hand on the computer keyboard and tugs him upright. He’s already managed to shed the sweater Shotaro plopped on his shoulders, somehow.

“Hey, Philip—” he says, before his breath decides that it’s going to vacate his lungs in something that might be called a squeak in a context marginally less tough and hardboiled.

Philip tucks himself against him and settles his hand on Shotaro’s shoulder.

Shotaro’s hand automatically goes around to rest in the small of Philip’s back. The boss did teach him how to dance properly, after all, and the reflex is still there, no matter how long it’s been. His hand meets the soft, bare skin of Philip’s back, and he’s completely unprepared for it. He sucks in a breath and pulls his hand away, but Philip is already there, pushing back into his touch. He’s reasonably sure that Boss didn’t expect this particular situation. 

Shotaro can’t help but notice that Philip has gotten taller again, that he has to tilt his chin up, just a little, to look him in the eye. Philip looks at him steadily, unreadable.

“Don’t step on my feet, Shotaro,” Philip says. 

“I wouldn’t—” Shotaro says, ready with a carefully-crafted huff of righteous outrage at the implied slight to his detective skill repertoire, before he notices the smile touching the curl of Philip’s lips. “Ahh, stop that.”

Philip grins and steps them into an easy sway.

Shotaro knows the contours of Philip’s body, knows the ways it moves from the times they’ve used Fang. This is different. Shotaro can’t feel the fizzing energy of Philip’s mind nestled against his; instead, he can feel every shift of Philip’s wiry frame, the rise and fall of his slow, even breath, the wisps of his hair against his cheek, the airy softness of the fabric on his skin. It speaks just as much, somehow, even though they’re probably not doing this exactly right—Philip is definitely leading, nudging Shotaro into the next step with the shift of his body under Shotaro’s hand, slow, slow, quick, quick.

The garage is always a little cold, even in the summer, and Philip is a warm line against him when Philip leads them into a tight turn that makes his dress billow around his legs.

“What’s this?” Shotaro says. It comes out softer than he intended.

“It’s a foxtrot,” Philip says.

Shotaro doesn’t say anything, because he expects Philip to elaborate on its origins and its evolution from another obscure dance or maybe its connection to fashion, but Philip doesn’t.

Philip’s thumb brushes against Shotaro’s neck, just above the edge of his collar, before his fingertips settle against Shotaro’s jaw, curious and deliberate in a way that makes Shotaro swallow hard and lean into his touch.

Their footsteps echo on the walls of the garage, and when Philip kisses him, it’s just another step that Shotaro follows, soft and sweet and precise.

He doesn’t even tread on Philip’s toes.

 

(Akiko’s entry into the garage almost sends Shotaro off the edge of the grating, though, which Shotaro narrowly avoids in an entirely graceful and deliberate break dance move.

“Ooh, Philip, show me, too!” she says, grabbing Terui’s arm. “Oh man, nice dress.”

“You’re blushing,” Terui says to Shotaro without any noticeable inflection, which means that he’s laughing, the jerk.

Akiko then whisks him into a dip, so ha.

“Like this, Aki-chan,” Philip says, a familiar gleam in his eyes, and Shotaro resigns himself to a minimum of forty-eight hours’ worth of dancing lessons.

Somehow, he can’t bring himself to mind.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a request for Eiji and Ankh and accidental baby acquisition!

Chiyoko has a baby on her hip when Eiji comes down in the morning.

“My niece! Isn’t she cute? Say hi, Kanna-chan,” she says, bouncing the baby. The baby chews on her fist and looks solemnly at Eiji, a fluff of hair sticking straight up on her head like the down on a chick. “Eiji, Ankh, you wouldn’t mind babysitting for a second, would you? I’ll be back in a tick, I just need to check on the deliveries today.”

Chiyoko drapes a cloth over Eiji’s shoulder and passes her off to him. She burbles at him and grabs at the collar of his shirt, yanking it with surprising strength. “Hey there,” he says, rearranging her in his arms so that she’s more comfortable.

Ankh scowls suspiciously at the baby, which only seems to make her burble louder and kick her legs happily.

Kanna-chan is excellent at peek-a-boo, he finds out. He settles her in her bassinet, eventually, just so he can rest his arms for a second. Babies are always heavier than they seem. They’re light at first, but your arms get tired a lot quicker than you would expect.

When he comes back with a warm bottle, the baby—the baby isn’t where he left her, and it makes something seize inside his chest, because he can’t even be trusted with a child for a few minutes, apparently, and he doesn’t know what he would do if. If.

The restaurant isn’t all that big, but feels like an eternity before he finds her in the corner of Ankh’s couch, surrounded by most of Eiji’s clothing and drooling enthusiastically on a cheetah medal.

“What,” Ankh says.

“Nothing,” Eiji says, because Ankh has that flat look, the one with the edge of combative confusion that Ankh seems to get when he’s trying not to think too hard about what he’s doing. Eiji feels his knees go loose, ice draining out of his veins when he flops back onto his bed, even though his heart is still thrumming hard. He’s close enough to intervene if something happens, so it’s okay. “Don’t just take people’s babies, though.”

Ankh huffs at him and rolls over to type on his phone. It’s probably a coincidence that he puts the policeman’s body between the baby and the edge of his roost, but it seems important, all the same.

(Chiyoko takes a lot of pictures, and when Date come over, he makes the mistake of cooing at the baby and trying to scoop her out of the nest of clothes, whereupon he almost gets Ankh’s pointy boots in his face. Eiji doesn’t quite tell him that he told him so, but Gotou is there for that, anyways.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-series fic for a request for snowed-in fic with Philip and Shotaro!

The snow doesn’t stop that day, and Shotaro resigns himself to the fact that he’ll probably have to shovel out most of the sidewalk to even get the bike out tomorrow.

He stamps his feet when he comes inside, brushing off the layer of snow that has piled up on his hat. “I’m back,” he says, by habit. He flips on the lights, and there’s a shadow in the corner by his desk, what the hell, what—

“Hidari Shotaro,” Philip says, by way of a greeting. He has his nose pressed up to the glass, his breath fogging the window.

Shotaro is still not used to it, to be honest. He clutches at his chest, trying to get his heart rate down to something approaching normal. “You can turn on the lights, you know, because the whole lurking-in-the-dark thing is kind of creepy. And also bad for your eyes.”

Philip shrugs a shoulder. “It might seem strange if the office lights are on while you’re not at the agency.”

It’s been snowing since the afternoon, and it isn’t showing any sign of stopping soon, coming down ever thicker outside the window. Everything is muffled, blurred at the edges, and it feels almost claustrophobic, the snow piling up and closing them in, Philip still and focused at the window.

“I’m going outside,” Philip says suddenly, on his feet and out the door, and Shotaro bites back the impulse to say that it’s too dangerous, that it’s only been two months and that they’re probably still looking for him.

He grabs his coat from the coathook and follows Philip.

Philip is staring up into the dark, the snowflakes spiralling down through the glow of the street lights. Shotaro looks up, and if he stares long enough, it’s like gravity has relaxed its hold on him, like he’s slowly lifting from the ground.

“Have you seen snow before?” Shotaro asks.

Philip keeps on staring up, unblinking. “Probably. Records indicate that Fuuto has had an average of 30.5 centimetres of snow per year over the past fifteen years, with an unusually heavy snowfall in 1997.”

Shotaro counts back on his fingers. “Yeah, I guess we got a lot of snow that year.”

Snowflakes catch in Philip’s eyelashes, and he blinks quickly, his huff of surprise forming a bright cloud in the air.

“Wait, you don’t even have a coat on!” Shotaro says. He shrugs out of his sleeves and plops the coat onto Philip’s shoulders, for now. “Honestly. Okay, we’ll find you a proper winter coat tomorrow.”

“I’m not cold,” Philip says petulantly, but he lets the coat hang off his shoulders, fingers curling around to draw it closer around him.  
Shotaro tugs at the coat sleeve. “Come on, we’ll do the shovelling in the morning.”

“Mm,” Philip says, following slowly.

Shotaro then shrieks in a very manful way, because someone has seen fit to dump a handful of snow down his back.

“Have you ever heard of these ‘snowball fights,’ Hidari Shotaro?” Philip says, and that is definitely a smirk and oh, he is so going to get it.

They’re both wet through and through by the time they manage to straggle back into the office, tracking snow through the billiard hall. It makes the office seem warmer, though, and the snow at the window seems brighter, softer, more familiar than it’s been in a long time.


End file.
